


How Much You Mean

by Dctr



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Soldier Enhancement Program | SEP Era (Overwatch)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29309439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dctr/pseuds/Dctr
Summary: There is something about Gabriel Reyes that feels like home.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Kudos: 11





	How Much You Mean

There is something about him that looks like home. 

He catches your eye in the midst of dozen other fidgeting people in the briefing hall. The man is impassive, to say the least. 

Couple years older than you if you had to put a number on it. Military undercut, trimmed beard framing distinct features. His deep brown skin is surprisingly unmarred. You expected to find years of fighting etched on the man with the way he was looking back at you—storms brewing just beneath the soft chestnuts of his eyes. 

It takes you back to the deep blue skies and rolling fields of Indiana, where war was something you'd only find in the pages of history books or the television. 

Somewhere between your rapid fire heartbeat, you hear a hiss of the door shutting behind; a mark to the beginning of the rest of your life. 

"Reyes." He extends a hand, though you've already that picked up from his name tag. 

You take it in a shaky one. "Morrison." 

"Hey. Look at me." 

His gaze levels yours, as if you were glass and he was looking right through you. The world slows down—soldiers and personnel and machinery blurring in your headspace. All you see is home for a long while, until you feel your breath return to you. 

The commander comes around and barks an order that goes right past your head. You find yourself filing into a line with the rest mechanically.  
"You're going to be okay," Reyes whispers, patting you on the back before moving to the front of the line where his identity number takes him. 

He says it like a promise. You let yourself believe him.

  


There is something about him that feels like home. 

You know with certainty a few months into the programme partnered with him. Both of you have racked up a fair share of glory days and endless nights to compliment each other well enough in combat, but you know that's not the reason why you return to him each night in the bunk, feeling like it's home. 

It is in the way he protects you like no one has ever done, guards your six so fiercely with his life that you feel safe even in the heat of gunfire exchange. 

In the way he shares stories with you hours way past curfew, how he's the first one in your life who genuinely wants to know about you beyond mundane small talk and feigned happiness. 

But above all, it is in the way he smiles—always a fleeting moment—eyes crinkling at the edges when you crack a small joke at something you've long forgotten now.

  


There is something about him that sounds like home. 

The adrenaline of the simulated battle has long since died down hours ago, soldiers returning to their quarters in equal parts exhaustion and accomplishment. Freshly showered, he sits on the bed with his weathered classical guitar—something he'd taken with him apart from the minimal necessities. 

Calloused fingers dance across the fretboard, deft ones plucking a lively rhythm on the other end. It is by no means perfect, yet you find yourself melting into the unfamiliar tune like it's the most natural thing to do. 

"What are you playing?" A hushed question above the melody. 

He chuckles, a hearty sound that never fails to send a spark of lightning through your skin. 

"Something from home." 

  


Reyes is sprawled open on his bed staring at the ceiling, the way he does on nights before important missions. 

The next day will bring you both to an actual battlefield, where months of training in simulation rooms and learning the faces of every known omnic model have led up to. You don't have to look twice to know how much nerves he had bundled up inside of him—that he was prepared to let this be another sleepless night. 

Climbing onto the bed, you let your face hover inches above his. 

"Gabe, look at me." 

He does immediately, looking at you with big brown eyes. 

"We're gonna do fine, okay? We'll get out alive. Always." 

"That a promise?" 

His voice is steady, full of mirth, though his eyes betray him. There's something just behind the granite that almost looks fragile. 

It takes you back to the open sea twelve summers ago, when your father had taught you how to swim. Blue waves ebbed into an inky black if you looked beyond the horizon. There's too much of the unknown that should scare a boy on the cusp of eight. 

Terrifying, yet thrilling all at once. You don't think you've ever felt more alive than on that day, when you'd allowed yourself to overtake your headspace and just dived into the murky waters. 

Silence fills the space between the both of you, his question hanging thick in the air. Either of you breathed a little harder and the moment would come crashing down like a wave. He looks up at you again, and this time there's no denying the uncertainty you see in his eyes. 

So you _dive_.

  
(There is something about him that tastes like home.)


End file.
